


Bullet through my heart

by lovenfall



Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Nobody Dies, Protective Hanbin, Violence, biker boys bobbi, double b will really be the end of me, pieces from fics i probably might not write, well except for the random dude can't say the same for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovenfall/pseuds/lovenfall
Summary: It's strangely comforting to Hanbin, fresh on his hands and soaking his clothes the colour red, a final pulse of adrenaline rushing throughout the entire circuiting powerhouse of his veins, and he thinks he doesn't mind dying after all.





	Bullet through my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I wrote this because I was listening to the 1975's Robbers after watching Akira and it made my heart ache, and with an aching heart I decide to hurt myself even more

The barrel feels like ice when it presses to Hanbin's forehead, and he hears the recognizable click that follows as clear as the crystallized sky above.

He's broken and vulnerable in ways that he never thought he could be, beaten down into the concrete and is beginning to feel comfortable there, actually, but nonetheless still daring and fierce even in the face of death as he firmly holds the gaze of the man hovering above him.

His eye twitches as pain knocks the air out of him and pins him back down after he surges up a bit to spit blood in the face that whips to the side from the assault, cursing him with a vulgar mouth and earning himself a satisfying hiss, then another lost breath and a punch in the ribs. Surely, he's bruised beyond belief, but there's no turning back at this point.

Revenge was either in your favour, or it just was not. A lesson he'd learned throughout years of being a gang leader. Tender age of seventeen, when he stole his first bike and built from there- starting his own biker gang, until it grew big enough to become a threat to the already existing ones in other areas.

It was often that trouble would come knocking down their doors, and then taken to the empty streets of the countrysides to resolve their issues with their bike engines and their speed, and whatever weapons they had at hand in those moments. _Like real men_.

Many of the times it ended in a bloodbath, splattered thick across the streets at the crack of dawn, left to be cleaned out by daylight.

The bodies were never left behind, though, for the sake of anonymity and little coverage by the authorities, the wounded taken by whoever got to them first- before the police could get to everyone at once.

It's how he'd met Jiwon, a pitiful lead thrown on the side of the street off his sturdy self-built bike that ran still, his tshirt torn and his flesh shred and bleeding out slowly, bruises pounded into his cheek by whoever hit him in the face while he still could ride, and his brown eyes _cooking_ with fury, so much that Hanbin swore he could feel himself burn.

And he _did_ burn eventually, on a cold, winter night when Jiwon told him that he was leaving. He let him, but then Jiwon came back, with snow in his jagged cut hair and his plump lips cold and chapped and his large hands trembling. 

And like that he told Hanbin he knew no other home anymore, except for that in the comforting embrace of his company. 

That night Hanbin realized that he'd been burning since Jiwon had first laid eyes on him, and he made the miraculous mistake of meeting those eyes. But it wasn't anger that burned him out. It was all that Jiwon _was_ , all that he always will remain.

So Hanbin pulled him into a hug, pressed his heart to the elder man's own through layers of fabric and the caging of their heaving chests and told him that he'll always have a place there. That he's welcome to remain for as long as he could manage until he finds his own way out.

But he never told him that he was talking about his heart. Or that he selfishly hoped that Jiwon would remain stranded in it for as long as he lived. That he was willing to hurt, kill and _die_ for him at any given moment.

Nonetheless, he still let himself burn to ashes. Over, and over.

And now he's bloodthirsty and blind, because as dead as Jiwon was assumed to be by his respective gang, the sign of life in his body had managed to slither under the palm of his former leader, and soon Hanbin had to deal with the news and the sight of his _hyung_ being hurt- terribly so, on the verge of being torn apart from limb to limb by his former gang members.

Jiwon had tried to deal with the problem alone, and it landed him there. And Hanbin so much more beyond it.

So he waited a good two weeks for Jiwon to regain consciousness and the gorgeous tint of colour back in his skin, albeit bruised and cut in so many places, stabbed even, but as long as he was healing, Hanbin didn't fucking _care_.

Hanbin didn't care. He _still_ doesn't care, so again, he spits, and takes another punch because it's worth it. Bobby's alive. _Bobby's alive_.

" _Fuck you_ for touching Jiwon." He coughs out blood and spit and another tooth like he does curses, probably his third tooth by now. He was outnumbered when he found them, the pile of bodies now scattered like his teeth in the alleyway. This guy was the last. He's bigger, but not impossible. Hanbin just needs an opening.

"I'm going to tear you open from the inside out, starting with your fucking tongue. 'Send you back home so your leader can finish you off himself."

The vicious smirk that surfaces then cuts him like a blade, but he doesn't flinch an inch, even then when the barrel is angled to his temple, colder than before, and finally, "You ain't as good as they say you are. It's too late now, so you die first, _gang leader_."

Then there's a gunshot, and it pierces tight in Hanbin's ears and echoes in the alley and beyond a couple more, as it does flesh, and bones. And then there's _pain_ , and then blood. Warmth and tang and iron, painting over the concrete and damp bricked walls.

It's strangely comforting to Hanbin, though, fresh on his hands and soaking his clothes the colour red, a final pulse of adrenaline rushing throughout the entire circuiting powerhouse of his veins, and he thinks he doesn't mind dying after all.

This was his life. He knew nothing more than this hot red sting and the stench of death approaching in the alleyways. Crawling on all fours towards him as he lay on his back, long lashes twinkling towards the universe overhead, talons of darkness seeking to slash his throat.

So he closes his eyes and waits for the pain to numb and his heart to find peace. He's shaking, it's cold and warm at the same time, his clothes are light and heavy and sticking to his body with dirt and blood, but it's okay. He was going to take it like it is.

It had to be worth it. For Jiwon, it always had been.

"' _Bin_ ," Heavy footsteps squelch through puddles and blood and mud in his ringing ears, hastily getting closer until he hears splashes near him, and puffs of breath that quiver as thickly as the quiet mention of his name had. "'Bin, yo, _stay_ with me, man, alright? _Shit_ , I... I got you. You'll be good in a bit, don't move."

Bobby's fingers feel icy on his cheek, and for a second he believes he's hallucinating. They tremble hard enough to shake Hanbin's heart in his bruised chest, and then his entire body that lays limp and mute from the pain and readiness for the end. He hopes, _prays_ he is hallucinating although he's already aware that he's not.

" _Hanbin_ ," He can't find it past the excruciating pang of sorrow and dread, and _relief_ that crashes into his thinning shores to comprehend what Bobby was doing here now, let alone figure out _how_ , and fucking _why_.

All he can do is choke, on a rising sob that vigorously twists in his throat like a serpent, and has him tasting blood on his tongue.

No, no, no, _no_.

A different set of pain rises in his stomach that bleeds from the inside out, holding hands tighter with humiliation and self loath when Bobby's shaking voice cuts through the air, shy from a whisper, and lodges hilt-deep into Hanbin's reality like the knife in his side he didn't even feel settling in. He's fucking _terrified_ , and it's more for Hanbin than for his own life. Hanbin holds his breath more. "Hey, hey, I'm here. Fuck, I'm here. I'll take care of you."

' _Why the fuck would you even be here?'_   Hanbin wants to croak out, _yell_ at him with every nonexistent ounce of might in his body, but he can't because he can't feel anything and everything at the same time. He can barely even manage a single breath properly.

He registers the sound of forceful tearing of cloth and wet fumbles, and a few sniffles, and that's when he realizes that his eyes are still closed. And he silently thanks the Gods he didn't believe in for that because he couldn't look at that man right now. Not when Bobby was possibly shedding tears, and Hanbin was this undeserving of them.

Everything was too much for him to process for the first time in a while. It breaks him down more, something he hadn't thought possible after all the bones in his body.

"Listen... It's okay," It sounds more like a reassurance to himself than to Hanbin, his voice cracking like Hanbin's ribs. "Take a deep breath, Bin... This is really gonna fuck you up but we gotta get it out fast and take you home..." Bobby's muttering under his breath and he sounds like a broken record, his palm clammy on Hanbin's lower abdomen for grounding, caked in blood that he couldn't tell who's it was from anymore.

Hanbin doesn't have enough time to work with his lungs after a minute of trying because then the knife in his side suddenly tears more sensitive flesh open and triggers more blood flow as it's dislodged with a few tugs and Bobby's keening, and he's left _gaping_ open seconds before Bobby presses a large piece of cloth, his shirt, over Hanbin's wound and holds it firm in place even when it soaks faster than he'd feared it would.

Hanbin's head is spinning with light-years behind it's pace, and he can't screech or thrash or _cry harder_ , left helpless and spineless- carefully being hollowed out by coiling pain that punches him square in all angles existing.

He feels himself slipping quick from the last few digits of the world that are keeping him still weaved into the ground, then he's floating because Bobby's pulling him up into his arms, mud and blood coating him sticky like honey, and almost _rocks_ on his knees into the wall with a strained grunt that makes Hanbin's heart pound hard enough for a moment that he feels like it's going to split him open.

That's when he finally forces his eyes wide, and realizes with an inhale as sharp as the pressure of ribs that whine and shatter like thousands of shards of glass under his chafed flesh, that the sky is still decorated with stars so familiar. Peaceful. Blinking back at him like nothing's happening, weighing on broad shoulders that ache.

He realizes that he's not dead, on the verge but not _yet_ , and was yet again being selfish in the name of Jiwon, to yield to the reality of death instead of colliding headfirst with the fight until it really ended, with him holding Jiwon, _both_ of them safe and _alive_.

But he's a coward, Jiwon is worth more than that. He deserved someone who belonged and fit all his gaps and fought through anything to always come find him again in the end, and now it had became clear that it will never be Hanbin.

It never was.

He slumps when a silent, "You're fine, just... just stop bleeding so fuckin' much, _damn it_." claws up past Bobby's jerking Adams apple and falls in the chilly whistling wind. "I can't lose you. If you die in my arms now I'll kick your ass, leader or not."

Hanbin still hears the ' _You ain't my leader, anyway_ ' that Jiwon always had the habit of mentioning in his ears, even if he doesn't speak it out loud this time. He didn't have to.

There's no bullet, not in him but in the corpse that's left abandoned behind in the mud, alone and cold and killed by one of his own at the end of the day. Fresh rain drips from the roofs and walls of the buildings still, and when Hanbin blinks, tears mimic the falling drops. Licking at his lashes and dripping down his cheeks.

The stars blur for that moment, only for that moment, and he feels safer behind that blur, but then feels a broad palm cradling the back of his head until he only sees wet locks of jet black, sticking to a forehead he'd always desired to kiss. Golden copper skin stretches far beyond his minimal line of sight, soaked bandages and fresh scars and bruises perching every few inches as far as he can see.

And dark brown eyes, a lot of dark brown eyes. Achingly familiar and simultaneously hard and soft as Bobby concentrates so he wouldn't trip over his own pain and causing Hanbin more than what he was already under- tying his shirt over the wound that isn't letting up much.

He doesn't feel like he deserves it, but Hanbin still wishes he could reach over and thumb over the scar that always laid bare across Jiwon's eyebrow, smoothing strokes of dulcet over it as if it would help healing the only sign of imperfection on the man's beautiful skin.

But he has no strength and continuously runs out of more and more by the second somehow. Not even to do more than whimper and languidly press his palms at Bobby's lower stomach after he's settled carefully onto the all too familiar bike and hears the all too familiar sound of the ride being key'd and the handles being choked and then the engine roaring and groaning, with Bobby sitting close before him of course.

"Hold on tight. If you let go, we're both dying tonight." Jiwon breathes over a wince, and Hanbin doesn't believe for one second that he's not a fool. But he knew him well enough to recognize that the fool wasn't joking, even when he says, finishes, "Where you go, I go."

 _Goddamned fool_.

Just like him, another fool that would follow his hyung to the edges of the world. Until he's told to fuck off.

For now, though, he closes his eyes and takes what he can get, the broad back that his blood stained cheek pillows against all but warm now, but Bobby smells like alcohol medicine, torn stitches and the sun, and it's enough for him to drink down and stay put.

For now, he finds home in the scent and the taut muscles that clench and shift, the breeze that dries his tears and licks his wounds and makes them sting, and hopes that'll keep him from getting his ass kicked in hell any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and kudos if u give any! Hope you enjoyed that little piece I wrote bc I'm a masochist lol I'm tripping over the idea of extending this now but who knows what the results might be... @_@ 
> 
> Comment and lmk what you think?


End file.
